Go to Hell, Sherlock
by Jo Hope
Summary: The story is set after the Final Problem. Sherlock took his "I love you" back. It seemed Molly would never be the part of the detective's life again but a new serious case changed everything. Holmes just couldn't cope without his favourite pathologist. If you like secretes and puzzles, don't walk past!
1. The Fall

Notes: I do not own "Sherlock". All the rights belong to BBC.

"Forgive me. It wouldn't be fair to give you false hope and promise something that doesn't exist and never will. I'm so sorry that it happened like this… If I can do anything, anything at all, just tell –"

The absence of response, stifling silence, the sound of fading steps. Emptiness. What is there left to do for her? To embrace herself, lower her face, close her eyes and slowly slide down, feeling the cold of the kitchen door.

To fall deeply and irrevocably.

Nobody cares, anyway.

The world still exists outside the window. That's a pity.

She finally raises her head from the pillow. The tea is bitter. A new packet would be nice but what's the difference? The old will do. Molly jumps when the phone suddenly rings. At least somewhere they need her. At work. A little cold water to refresh her face. The wrinkled clothes won't be seen under the doctor's overall. She just smoothes her hair down and puts on a smile. Ready.

"Hello, indifferent reality. Would you be so kind to accept me again?"

"Sherlock Holmes's at the door. There was a murder under very strange circumstances. The body has just arrived. Will you take care of it?"

"Could someone do it instead of me?"

Molly is lucky to hide before the familiar coat turns up in the ward. The best way not to remember is to avoid seeing. She stays in a store room till it's dark outside. Home. She has to go home. It's no surprise Molly skulks through back streets, catching shadows. But what for? Nobody is there for her.

It's high time she got used to it.

The bus is overcrowded, almost air-deprived. That's it. On foot. A slight trembling in the pocket. She presses "Reject". "Sorry, John. You are my true friend but you will be always a reminder. Need to forget."

Molly goes round a puddle and suddenly finds herself opposite a newsstand. A fresh issue of a magazine with a glossy cover, HIS smiling face and Iren Adler's firm grasp of the man's hand.

"Grandiose fraud exposed by the genius of private investigation"

Her soul rips apart. It's no good to be happy for him and curse the torturer at the same time.

Molly buys the magazine, hand shaking, touches the paper cheek and throws the issue in the nearest bin.

The other half has won.

There's nothing here to hope for anymore.

Molly Hooper and a pub? The two are antonyms actually. Let it be. They say it's fun. She doesn't care much. As long as pubs are outside his universe it's ok.

Wisky is on the menue. The hot liquid burns her throat, not helping to get drunk, no matter how desperately she needs oblivion.

Noise envelopes every single cell of the worn-out body. The clock chimes in a distinctive bang, cutting out the notes of an inane song playing. It's no use. She's still alone. In a crowd. It's no news. Big deal!

The experiment is over. Molly pays off and leaves. She needs to go somewhere. A final destination is irrelevant. Just to go away from here as far as it's even possible.

The London Bridge. It's so beautiful and perhaps also lonely.

"Don't be sad. I'm here."

She climbs the concrete fence, stretches out her hands high above the city. Isn't it good to feell free again?

"Are you scared? Don't be! Of course, you are not falling! And I won't fall. I'll fly. I surely can. No lie!"

A gentle hand of wind strokes her hair. It'so nice, so peaceful. But silence give way to noise too soon: there's someone's cry, a thump against the pavement and complete darkness.

Reverberating with loud voices, her head feels like leed. Having been brought to his bedroom is such irony. Perhaps, this was the only way for Molly Hooper to get here.

"What for, John? There are plenty of other places in the city. Why have you brought me here? What did I do to deserve this?"

"How can one even come up with the idea like that? asks the detective feverishly, his deep voice quivering with fake worry.

"She was going to fly. I barely made it in time" grumbles John.

There's a banging sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Molly has only a couple of minutes to run away or to save herself? It appears quickness isn't her strong point. Something must be done about it as soon as the room stops moving.

It's too late. He is already here, extremely mad at her.

"Are you sick of being alive? he's bursting with emotions. They aren't for you, Sherlock. Don't you remember?

Her silly heart struggles to reach him, breaks through the chest, gets hurt, trying to avoid a stinging touch of sharp ribs but still won't give up. It has to be stopped, prevented from further happening with a sole purpose of protection. Molly mutters under her breath, hands clasped on her chest.

"Sorry, poor thing. You aren't welcome here."

"Molly, do you hear me? his hand squeezes her shoulder in attempt to draw attention. What for? She'd do anything for him...

His touch is burning. There'll be a scar left on the spot. One more scar. But who counts them?

"Do you even realise how you scared us? What if...? What would we...What would I? –" such false care hurts the most. It's enough. Molly feels a flush of anger which unexpectedly gives her strength.

"If you are so worried about my well-being, why was it John who rescued me on the bridge? " one phrase is enough to make him freeze for a minute.

It's not much time, but it'll do to leave the stifling quarters of the hostile house to never come back again no matter what happens next.


	2. The Awakening

What was she doing here? How could she let herself become so easily manipulated?

There was a serious excuse, though. One could not evade Mrs Hudson, especially if the housekeeper was determined to help. That pretty much explained how Molly Hooper happened to be present at a gathering of a support group for attempt survivors. Only one meeting and that's it. The young woman had a perfect plan of pretending to listen and leaving in twenty minutes due to a very «serious» matter, needing her immediate attention. Anyway, she didn't owe anything to anyone anymore.

Molly had always been a bit skeptical about such gatherings. How could a public disclosure solve a problem, if a long-lasting fight with it on your own hadn't been a success?

She looked around, sizing up all the present. Was it really true that all these people had tried to end their lives? They might be here by mistake, though. The same mistake that had brought her to this place. Maybe, they also wanted to fly.

An energetic young man coughed, reminding the chaotic crowd that the session had already begun. Men and women obediently took their sits in an improvised circle of chairs.

Several faces turned to the moderator in expectation, but the majority kept blankly staring straight ahead, still lost in their thoughts **.**

After a couple of obligatory words of greeting the smiling young man, who'd introduced himself as Tom, announced that it was high time for them to start sharing their stories.

If you consider occasional discernible rustle and muffled sounds of shallow breathing to be noise, then Tom's speech was immediately followed by complete stillness. Absolute silence. There weren't any volunteers to pour out their soul. Molly didn't require such procedure either. With every passing moment she was becoming more convinced that coming here was a bad idea.

"Well, don't you want some help? Don't be shy!" Tom insisted enthusiastically with a broad smile on his face. Such a unique opportunity –"

"I bet, it is," a young man sitting opposite Molly interrupted the moderator, "a great chance to proclaim from the housetops how badly you'd screwed up your life." His deliberately stilted manner of speaking with distinctive notes of genial mirth wiped the smile off Tom's face, making him suddenly realize his mistake.

Molly was extremely grateful to the stranger for taking Tom down a peg or two. At first this feeling she got was just a small spark in her heart but soon enough it turned into the warmth spreading through her whole body. Molly looked with interest at the young man opposite her. He was quite a good-looking guy with golden curls, green eyes, high cheekbones, a strong jawline and firmly chiseled lips. The stranger's outfit was simple enough, frayed jeans, a pair of sneakers and a blue loose T-shirt, that concealed his athletic figure rather than emphasized it. Except for wavy hair, there was nothing similar. He looked nothing like HIM. The mere thought of Sherlock hurt enormously. Caught up in a whirl of conflicting emotions, Molly gripped the edges of her seat, desperately trying to calm down.

When she finally raised her head, she was quite surprised to meet the stranger's concerned gaze. Molly gave the man a slight smile to let him know that she was alright and he smiled back reassuringly. There was such palpable relief in this friendly gesture as if he genuinely cared for her. This unexpected discovery distracted Molly from her troubles and dissolved the terrible pain she felt in her chest.

She caught the stranger's gaze once more in an attempt to show her gratitude. He nodded and flashed her another smile. Though Molly immediately looked away, she couldn't get rid of the feeling that the stranger was still eyeing her.

Meanwhile, the ashamed Tom was trying hard to compensate for the unfortunate beginning of their communication, his aplomb forgotten.

"I'm sure everyone here will show maximum patience, understanding and compassion. We'll do our best to solve the problems, that made you…Well, in a nutshell…Why don't you start?" Tom addressed his question to the stranger opposite Molly.

This act surprised her. The young man was so different from all the others in the room with his open face and relaxed demeanor that Molly managed to completely forget the evident reason that'd led him to this gathering _._ This was hard to believe. This didn't seem right.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders and started telling them a story, his true self hidden behind the masked indifference and his thoughts revealed in sharp short phrases.

"My name is Daniel. Daniel Rogers.

Last Sunday I was going to propose to my girlfriend. I took a day off at the firm. It was supposed to be a surprise.

We rent a flat together. Used to rent," he corrected himself. "I opened the door with my key, snuck into the bedroom and found Liz in bed with my best friend. The day before yesterday patrol officers spotted me on Waterloo Bridge. That's all. Nothing to add."

Tom waited for a couple of minutes, expecting Daniel to finish his story, but in vain. With a loud sigh he pointed to a phrase in the big poster on the wall.

"Thank you for your honesty. We won't leave you alone in your trouble!" a discordant chorus of voices declared.

Inspired by courage of the first speaker, the others started sharing their stories one by one. There was a distinct pattern in their confessions: almost everyone was pushed over the edge by the closest people they had. As soon as Molly figured this out she stopped listening. Instead, she concentrated on Daniel Rogers, secretly watching him.

Molly got so engaged into this "illegal" activity that Tom's loud voice, calling out her name, made the poor thing literally jump in her chair.

"Molly Hooper, everyone spoke except for you. Are you ready to tell about yourself?"

Sixteen pairs of eyes turned to stare at Molly, waiting for her to make a move. Unaccustomed to such close attention, she didn't feel like divulging the details of her private life at all.

Molly's gaze had been shifting helplessly from one unfamiliar face to another till she saw a smile. Daniel, who seemed indifferent to the previous confessions, was looking at her with a mixture of sympathy and poorly disguised interest. He wanted to know what had led her here. It would have been wrong not to satisfy the curiosity of the man, who'd managed to brighten up this dull gathering for her.

Molly pulled herself together, took a deep breath and tried to sound casual.

"I've had a serious disease for a long time – I'm in love with a man. He knows about my condition and …well… he made it very clear that my feelings aren't mutual."

Molly flashed a self-effacing grin to grant herself some respite and then went on speaking in a level voice.

"In my place any self-respecting girl would try to get rid of the unfortunate affection. But I couldn't do it. That's why it has more in common with a disease than with love. I was always there for him, when needed. I did everything he asked me to. I ran to the hospital in the middle of the night just to help him with a current case. I have no idea, what I waited for. Maybe, I hoped for a miracle," Molly gave a weak smile to the carpet on the floor, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room, "and it finally came. I thought that he was...but in fact –"

All of a sudden a lump rose in her throat, preventing Molly from finishing the sentence. It took her much effort to start talking again, but no matter how hard she struggled to conceal pain, words still came out muffled and abrupt.

"It was a mistake. A huge one. An enormous one."

"Poor thing! You decided to jump because of him, didn't you?" asked with sympathy a tender-hearted middle-aged woman, who was listening to Molly very attentively.

"No, it's nothing like that," objected she loudly, "I was on the bridge, i didn't deny. But nobody was going to die."

Molly fell silent. The true reason was too impossible to believe in. If she dared to air it, they would do nothing but label her as deranged.

"I wanted to see the Thames at night–"

"And to fly high above the city." added she in her thoughts. But there wasn't any need to mention it aloud.

Though nobody spoke a word, Molly already knew that her explanation had failed to convince them. The moment she took her eyes of the floor, this conjecture was confirmed. How pathetic! The last thing she wanted was their pity!

Tom's voice, supported by others almost immediately, distracted her from the unpleasant thoughts.

"Thank you for your candor, Molly!"

There was only one person, who didn't join in. Daniel. He kept silent, sitting motionless in his chair and eyeing her with the same keen interest. When she looked at him, a faint smile stirred his lips. Molly had no idea what was hiding behind that smile and honestly didn't care much. Enough. She'd had enough. Knowing a lot about Sherlock hadn't helped her to win the detective's love. It only kept her awake most of the nights. What was the point of caring for somebody knew? More than ever she needed to be alone.

For the rest of the meeting Molly pretended not to notice Daniel, which wasn't easy, because he still somehow managed to attract her attention. When the session finally came to the end, she grabbed her bag and, without waiting for Tom's concluding words, hurried towards the door. Molly let herself slow down and catch her breath only when the dull grey building of false assistance was far behind.

She looked around carefully and sighed with relief. There wasn't anybody in the street, except for a shaggy homeless cat, who'd left his sanctuary in the basement to busk in the sun. Molly had nothing against such company. It was better than being surrounded by hypocrites. She'd rather die than visit a similar gathering once more. Neither persuasions nor threats could ever make her change her mind. No one could.

Molly slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and went slowly down the street. London was coming to life after deep sleep. The awakening was evident in the sonorous laugh of children, the courage of bare-headed adults, the distant singing of birds. The sun, reflected in the puddles on the road, was shining brightly in the sky, melting the remaining snow mercilessly. Spring had taken its abode in the air. Molly couldn't help being happy about it. She caught herself smiling. For the first time in a long while there was a broad, sincere smile on her face.

Suddenly a familiar figure blocked her way, making the blithe liveliness she felt vanish. Molly waited for an explanation, her arms crossed on the chest. Daniel couldn't think of anything better than a joke.

"Were they alive, most of the cars in this town would be jealous of your speed. I hardly managed to catch up."

"Do you have a message for me?" inquired Molly courteously, trying to create a barrier between them from the very beginning. But Daniel simply didn't let her with a warm and friendly smile.

"I was worried about you. One should take sedatives after such therapy. More than one pack. I thought you needed someone to see you home. You seemed upset. And let's be honest: there are too many dangers lurking on the way to be sure that you'll reach your house safely."

"What dangers?"

"That red cat, for example. Judging from the look he gave me, the fluffy guy is up to something. Oh, here he comes."

Molly looked in the direction Daniel was pointing and saw a big red cat with matted fur, which was lazily approaching them.

On reflection the cute fuzz ball chose Molly to be his victim and started rubbing his face on her jeans. Then he probably decided that it wasn't enough and stood up on his hind legs, his paws wrapping around her knee. The gesture was so sweet that it won Molly's heart instantly. Pleasantly surprised, she reached out to scratch the cat behind his ear.

"Will you take him home?" asked Daniel, his voice accompanied by the cat's purring.

"If his masters don't show up, I might."

"Does this go for me too?"

To that question Molly didn't reply. She simply went on walking down the street, holding the red purring dodger in her hands. There was nothing else left for Daniel to do but to follow her. The sight of him, trying to keep pace, brought a smile to Molly's lips.

It took a few blocks of walking for her to get used to Daniel's presence. He was so charming that Molly couldn't help laughing at the numerous stories from his life, much to the dismay of the cat. Time flew by unnoticed. It was no wonder, that Molly reached her doorstep a lot faster than she did usually. She turned to Daniel with a clear intention of saying goodbye, but he interrupted her in mid-sentence.

"What name will you choose for this fluffy hooligan?"

The sleepy red cat opened one eye and squinted suspiciously at the man, as though he knew whom Daniel was talking about.

"Lucky."

Molly herself was surprised to find the answer so quickly, is if it always existed somewhere in her subconscious mind, waiting patiently for its time.

"Lucky," she repeated confidently, scratching the cat under the chin, "he'll bring me luck and happiness," proclaimed she solemnly, giving out her musical laugh, when the red fuzz ball managed to caught his new mistress's finger and licked it.

"He surely will!" confirmed Daniel in a serious tone. "Time for me to go, I guess… It was a pleasure. Maybe, we can have a dinner the other day or–"

"D'you want to come in?" The invitation turned out to be unexpected both for Daniel and Molly. A minute ago she clearly imagined herself closing the door, throwing her bag onto the sofa, taking off her clothes and letting the pain, she'd been fighting so hard for the last few hours, take over. It was exactly how Molly Hooper's usual evening looked like. Nothing would have been changed about it, but for a sudden desire to stay a smiling girl for a minute longer, that just happened to be too strong. And Molly simply gave in to it.

She was smiling, when Daniel took the keys bravely and failed to open the door, when they bathed protesting Lucky and combed his fur, when they searched for food in her half-empty fridge, when she saw Daniel off and he promised to come back. She was just smiling. And there was something new about it. Apparently, Molly's life won't be the same anymore.


	3. The Request

It's impossible to know for sure what is going to happen in the next minute as well as to foresee which surprises the Universe has in store for you.

On her way to that dumb gathering, Molly didn't have a slightest idea that among all those troubled people there would be him. The man, who would literally burst into her life, not only to make himself comfortable in it, but also to claim clear intentions of staying forever. He was very determined, indeed.

Molly squinted at her favourite sofa. There was only a tiny spot on the edge, kindly allocated to her. All the remaining space was occupied. Daniel was lying on the right side of the sofa, helping himself to crisps. A few inches from him, in the very centre, Lucky was having a pleasant sleep, indifferent to the sounds of a loud comedy on TV. From time to time the living room burst into laughter, which at some point would surely wake the fluffy pal up and make him express his irritation with the indignant meowing. And this scene had already become a tradition, happening almost every evening. At first it was difficult for Molly to get used to such company. But in a while she could no longer imagine even a day without her beloved red cat and brazen blond friend, who didn't cease to smile.

Molly almost figured out, how she felt about both of them. The situation with Lucky was quite clear: nobody could remain indifferent to him. Molly wasn't an exception. She simply adored her fluffy pet, and allowed Lucky to do whatever he wanted. No matter how many tricks he managed to pull, everything was immediately forgiven and forgotten.

Her relationship with Daniel was a lot more complicated. What she wouldn't give to find out which place belonged to this man in her life and what feelings she had for him!

Molly had never had a male friend before. John didn't count. He was more of an acquaintance. She could hardly imagine herself asking him for a piece of advice, concerning her love life. Unlike John, Daniel was the man, whom Molly could tell anything. They talked about fears and doubts, thoughts and dreams, discussed secrets of the past and enigmas of the present. There wasn't any forbidden topic. They talked about everything, including even Him.

The moment someone brought up the subject of Sherlock Holmes, she was prone to cut off any conversation and did all the possible and impossible to avoid further communication. According to Molly's value system, such behavior was not at all rude or ignorant. The mere sound of the painfully familiar name didn't leave her any other choice. She had to protect herself.

Most of those few, Molly was in touch with, knew this peculiarity of hers and didn't even try to discuss Sherlock with her, no matter how often his face appeared in mass media. Daniel, though, had a special gift of asking questions about the private detective in such a way that she just could do nothing but answer. As a rule, her response would gradually grow into a sincere confession, which, unlike that forced monologue at the gathering, didn't evoke a disgusting feeling of exposed vulnerability. Its effect was quite the opposite: whenever they talked, pieces of her shattered heart were slowly but surely gathering together, making all the pain, disappointment and sorrow fade away.

Daniel was exactly the right medicine to treat those with Sherlockmania. Everything about him had tremendous healing effects: his loud voice and quiet whisper, his infectious laugh and soft smile, his cheerful face and that little glint in his blue eyes, his warm palms and strong arms, his embrace.

Though Molly had made it clear from the very beginning that she wasn't looking for a new relationship and that, thus, she could only offer Daniel her friendship, their hugs were hardly those of two friends. She shouldn't have allowed Daniel to hold her like that. Molly had promised herself thousands of times to stop him from doing it, but so far only reneged on her words.

Their evenings together were quiet innocent. None of them had ever ended with her and Daniel in bed. Yet there was something inmost and intimate about watching movies with a handsome man till midnight. Despite all the rational arguments and the endless internal struggle, this friendship inflicted upon her life, Molly just couldn't help it. Every day she looked forward to that time when Daniel would come with a new movie from a rental store around the corner and some food from a supermarket. He would surely occupy his usual spot on one end of the sofa in the living room and, after moving Lucky slightly aside, would open his arms to her.

His embrace was so warm, soothing and comfortable, that Molly just couldn't help forgetting how wrong of her it was to give the man false hope. She knew, such behavior hurt him, but continued pretending it didn't.

Suddenly, one particularly special memory from the first week they met, still fresh, awoke a nagging feeling of self-loathing. Back then everything happened so fast that she didn't have any time to protest and dodge. One moment they were cuddling on the sofa, watching "The Intouchables", and the next moment Daniel was kissing her. She remembered the details quite vaguely. The hilarious movie was making Daniel almost cry with laughter. As it was her favorite film, Molly was admiring the excellent humour too. At some point they turned their heads toward each other in unison, laughing at one of the scenes. Daniel's face happened to be too close to hers.

The touch of his lips was very tender and delicate, but Molly didn't kiss the man back. Instead she moved aside to the edge of the sofa and repeated her request.

"Please, don't fall in love with me. Don't you ever do it!"

Did she feel awful at that moment? Surely, she did. To be honest, she never stopped loathing herself for what she'd done.

Daniel said nary a word. He just nodded and opened his arms, as if nothing had happened.

Fortunately, that memorable evening hadn't ruined their tradition of watching movies together, while cuddling on the sofa. Daniel, however, hadn't made a single attempt to kiss her again since. Molly caught him looking at her sometimes, longing yet wistful expression in his eyes, which she mostly ignored; for the sake of them both.

 _Why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn't she just fall in love with Daniel?_ He deserved it more than anyone else. Instead, broken, she'd chosen to break him too. The answer was obvious, though hard to accept. Sherlock.

Molly didn't feel like she had to be faithful to him. Nonsense! Apart from the fact, that Mr. Holms never needed this particular kind of commitment from his fellow pathologist, Molly herself had long ago abandoned all the stupid fantasies about her and Sherlock being together.

Even with the private detective out of the picture, confiding in Daniel wasn't the best option for her at the moment. It would mean needing someone again, and freedom was all she really wanted. Molly yearned for being independent from others, from Him, from her love. Sick and tired of losing herself in a man, who might say one day, "I'm sorry but–", she just desired to fly. Anyway, hurrying back home from work, hoping to hear a familiar knock on the door, Molly still kept on denying the obvious. It had already happened. Daniel had become vital for her existence; she needed him the way one needed sleep, or water, or oxygen.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the loud sound of the doorbell. Molly exchanged surprised glances with Daniel, and, more automatically than willingly, went to the hall to open the door. In a moment she regretted this decision. Sherlock Holmes stood on her doorstep.

Molly backed away from the entrance, as if it threatened her with some kind of mortal danger. Truly, it was nowhere near easy to meet the private detective in person for the first time after that terrible scene at his place. It still hurt.

"Ms. Hooper, you were so foolish to think, that you'd completely recovered." Molly muttered disappointedly under her breath, stepping back. As soon as Sherlock turned up at her door, the magical power of Daniel's influence slipped away, as though it had never been there at all. Contrary to common sense, her heart started racing, and her palms became wet. Unable to stop staring at him, Molly involuntarily reached out. If only she could touch that unshaved cheek, wipe out those dark circles of fatigue under Sherlock's eyes and make all the red in their incredible depth disappear.

It took Moly much effort to take hold of herself and move away. In the end such behavior would result in nothing but humiliation. She wrapped her hands around herself, trying hard to ignore the evident signs of Sherlock's using again. His bad habits weren't the matter of her concern anymore. Molly had no reason to care. But she still did.

Sherlock, who'd been studying her attentively all this time, and had surely managed to draw dozens of deductive conclusions, was the first to break the silence.

"Molly, I need you."

Desperation in the detective's tone invoked a queer feeling of deja vu, leaving Molly completely speechless. Helpless, unable to think of a proper answer, she would probably just go on gasping for air, but for the firm touch of Daniel's hand on her shoulder. Grateful for such a timely appearance, Molly quickly buried her face in his chest, seeking shelter in the warm embrace. Rubbing Molly's back soothingly, Daniel turned to the unexpected guest, a hint of latent hostility in his deep voice.

"You are Sherlock Holmes," it wasn't a question but rather a statement of fact that brooked no argument. "A famous private detective. I'm Daniel. Daniel Rogers. Molly's friend. And as her friend I can state with certainty that you are not welcomed here. It will be better for all of us, if you leave immediately."

Still lost for words, Molly shook her head and tried to break out of Daniel's arms. Whatever had happened between them, however badly Sherlock had treated her, she just couldn't show him the door. The detective looked as if he really needed her. Not exactly her, but at least her help; and Molly had never been immune to Sherlock in predicament.

Despite Molly's strong desire of freedom, all the attempts, at escaping Daniel's iron grip were so far falling flat. Tired from her fruitless efforts, Molly shot the man a furious glance. It was impossible to misunderstand such a broad hint. Reluctantly, Daniel let Molly go. His arm on her back, though, didn't move an inch.

Sherlock was eyeing Molly's new friend intently, his face contorted with a mixture of condescendence, contempt and annoyance. A usual insulting comment was on the verge of popping out, but at the last moment Sherlock apparently changed his mind, and concentrated on the pathologist instead.

"Molly, I really need your help. It's urgent. I'm investigating a new case. Very important. If nothing is done, people are going to die."

"You are guaranteed unlimited access to the hospital. Even with me gone, Ricky will give you everything there is in the lab. He would probably even set the Thames on fire, if you only ask him to.

Sherlock Holmes I know is perfectly able to handle murders and injuries without a personal pathologist. Of course, there are some connections I have, that might be useful. But it's nothing John can't provide you with. Honestly, I don't understand how I can be of any assistance," said Molly trying to hide her anxiety. "Unless there's someone, you want me to talk to. Just say what information you need. I'll look into it as soon as possible–"

"Molly, I need you to go with me," Sherlock stopped her mid-sentence. "To Kellochy. It's a small town in the north of Ireland. You probably never heard of it. I'd just discovered it for myself too. But it's not the point. The thing is, people are disappearing into thin air there, and we must stop that."

For the second time in the last five minutes Molly lost her ability to speak. She was ready to run any errands for Sherlock, help him with almost anything, on condition that she wouldn't have to be around him in the process. It seemed, as though Sherlock himself had no idea of what he was asking for. Molly had been desperately trying to get rid of a harmful habit of being worried sick about Sherlock Holmes for a long time now. Though from a distance, she still kept an eye on the familiar flat in Baker Street; and it was high time Molly Hooper stopped doing it, gave up taking care of someone, who didn't need her.

She accepted this painful truth a long time ago, but it didn't make it easier to stay calm in Sherlock's presence anyway. Molly was pretty sure that she would never stop avoiding him. There was only so much that a heart could take. To be fair, her nervous system had already suffered enough.

"Sherlock," her lips could hardly frame his name. "It's out of the question. What you are asking for I cannot possibly do. I just can't. You know why." Molly anticipated the detective's objections and motioned for him to hear her out. "I feel sorry for all the missing and their families. I honestly wish there wouldn't be any other victims, but it's not my business anymore. You and John will do your best to prevent more people from disappearing, I'm positive. The answer is somewhere out there and you'll certainly find it. Appreciate you thinking of me to help you with the case in the first place, but you must go now."

"Molly, you don't understand. John can't help me. You are the one I need. Without you my plan is doomed."

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Molly, we both know, I don't deserve your good attitude. Had you slammed the door in my face ten minutes ago, nobody would have thought less of you. In fact, that's exactly the reaction I expected. But instead you let me in. You'd listened to my every word. If to ignore the emotional side of the matter, I think, deep down you understand that this case has nothing to do with our relationship.

Such a strange ending of the phrase made Molly look at Sherlock in surprise. Before she could think of an appropriate response to his claim that they used to be or currently were in some kind of a relationship, Sherlock went on with his fiery speech.

"This is not the time to let personal grudges get in the way. Human lives are at stake here. The Molly I know would never let someone die, if she could prevent it."

"I used to be that person, but a lot have changed since, Sherlock. Falling makes our instinct of self-preservation stronger. Don't you know?" The words had tumbled out faster than she could stop them. Molly had no idea what she wanted to gain by reminding him of her little adventure on London bridge, but a faint flicker of guilt, that passed over the detective's features at that, brought her satisfaction and gave a sudden idea. She hated to manipulate the detective, but since he felt at least slightly responsible for what had happened, why couldn't she take advantage of it and make Sherlock leave?

"Molly, I–"

The detective's voice was strangely low. Used to being the one, who usually experienced mental pain in their unfathomable duo, Molly didn't pay much attention to a weary tremble in his mellow voice. The idea of Sherlock being worried about Molly Hooper was complete nonsense. The detective just needed to get things his way by making her participate in one of the many reckless ventures of his. Nothing else. And he surely didn't care what it would be like for her.

"I refuse. That's my last word. Nobody's indispensable. Someone will surely agree to help you. But that someone won't be me anymore.

"Molly, don't do this. Listen to me–"

"No, Sherlock, I–"

"Should go to Kellochy," a calm voice reminded the two of them of the fact that there was still a third person in the room. "You should really go."

Both Sherlock and Molly stared at Daniel in slack-jawed amazement, no more hurtful things said. Molly was feeling betrayed while Sherlock simply couldn't understand why a man, who evidently had romantic feelings for Molly, suddenly decided to support him. Obviously, this Daniel was having a hard time not busting him in the jaw.

"We need a minute," the man's statement was addressed more to Sherlock than to Molly, and the detective nodded, unable to think of a better response.

"Molly, let's go with me."

Daniel took her by the hand and went to the kitchen. He came to a halt only when a tall figure in a dark coat went completely out of sight. Then he turned to the puzzled young woman and took her both hands in his.

"Molly, I love you," said Daniel putting his finger to her lips to hush her. And before Molly backed off, he bent over and kissed her. "I love you endlessly, and I would be the happiest man on Earth, if you loved me back. I hoped that over time you would be able to forget whatever happened there in your past and would finally want to have a future with me. We've known each other for more than half a year now, and all this time spent by your side helped me to figure out one thing: no matter how much time passes, our future together is impossible until the image of that man stops haunting you.

You need to sort some things out. You need to understand how you feel about both of us. This new case, he's asking to help him with, gives such an opportunity."

"Daniel, you know that I am–"

"The most wonderful girl in the world, who surely deserves better than beating herself up about some jerk all her life.

"Daniel!"

"Ok. About a high-functioning sociopath. Better?"

"A lot."

"Go. It's a great chance to get to know Mr. Holmes better and see for yourself, that he's an asshole. I'll be waiting here for you to return. And believe me; you'll be back soon enough.

"Do you think so?" Molly asked, her face lit up in a glowing smile that always made the man's heart beat faster.

"I'm positive about that. Go there and watch him carefully. I don't even understand how you could fall in love with the man in the first place. He isn't the most pleasant person. Imagine, such a conclusion has been made on the basis of a ten-minute observation. It seems I've managed to pinpoint just the tip of the iceberg, preserving Sherlock Holmes' flaws. You'll see. So, what? Convinced?"

"I don't know–"

"Please, Molly, do it for me. For us."

The tenderness of his voice was impossible to resist. Daniel had done so much for her. He'd almost brought her back to life. She had no right to reject his request.

"Ok. I'll go. But only because of your–"

Her phrase was meant to be unfinished. Daniel pulled Molly into his arms and started spinning the young woman around the room, laughing. Molly's sonorous giggling, mixed in with the pleading to put her back on the floor, drew the detective's attention; and Sherlock turned up in the kitchen almost in no time, warlike expression on his face.

If Molly wasn't perfectly aware of the fact that Sherlock didn't care about her much, she would think that he ran there to help. She obviously screamed too loudly, when Daniel lifted her off the ground. It was easy to confuse the sound with a cry for help and, thus, decide that she was in danger.

But instead of the suffering Molly, Sherlock saw the happy one and froze, unable both to let go of the door handle and to explain his impulse.

The detective's unexpected appearance in the room, no matter what had caused it, spoiled all the fun. Reluctantly, Daniel put Molly down. She needed several minutes to catch her breath and get rid of dizziness. Then she looked Sherlock in the eye and said firmly.

"I'll help you."

To his utter surprise, Daniel caught the detective staring at him, deep thoughtfulness in his look. There wasn't much time to even have a try at guessing what that all meant – Sherlock didn't give him any.

"Good. We're leaving immediately."


	4. The Farewell

The living room was peaceful or at least seemed so. Anyway, while Molly was in the bedroom, looking for her favourite T-shirt, there wasn't a single sound coming from downstairs. Nobody broke the silence when she went to the bathroom, this time hoping to find her shampoo. That took her a lot longer than expected; Molly had searched the tiny room several times before she finally managed to notice it in the most unlikely of places – the laundry basket. The small bottle was half-buried under a fresh portion of dirty clothes. Molly gave a sigh and pulled it out. She hated the idea of leaving such mess in the house but was there really a choice?

"I'll take care of you as soon as I return," she promised solemnly. "I will!"

The elusive shampoo turned out to be the last item on her list of the most necessary things. Ok. Done. She was ready.

Molly slung her small, but quite heavy backpack over her shoulder, gave one last look around and almost ran out the door. No doubt, had she stayed there for a second longer, she would have lost the courage to leave the place at all. It was no wonder, considering the fact, that the trip presupposed companionship with Sherlock.

It wasn't easy to go down the stairs with your inner voice incessantly repeating one single phrase. _Why had you agreed to this, idiot?_ Was there an answer to that? Molly had none. So, she just kept going, ignoring the voice. There would be lots of sleepless nights and cold dawns for her to indulge in self-criticism and regrets. The opportunity to get handle on the mess in her private life wasn't something to arise every single day. Daniel was right: it would be foolish of her to miss it. No matter how hard the whole thing with the case would be, she had to help Sherlock. Perhaps, a new Molly was to come back home afterwards. A perfectly changed one. Molly, who had accepted her past and had proved to be ready to move on. At least, this scenario of the future was worth hoping for.

One look at the sofa was enough for her to figure out the secret of the deafening silence in the living room. All three representatives of male sex divided the territory among themselves: Sherlock and Daniel were sitting on opposite sides of the sofa, while Lucky was lying in the very centre – a fluffy boundary between the two belligerent armies. Oddly enough, all three were acting in the same way – preoccupied with the staring at the blank screen of the TV.

A strong desire to get out of her house as soon as possible was written all over Sherlock's face. This Molly couldn't understand. Yeah, he definitely disliked Daniel, but Lucky... How could one remain indifferent to the red scoundrel? Molly bent over to give her beloved cat a pat behind the ears. A sudden thought made her freeze. She had no idea what Sherlock's attitude to pets in general and cats in particular was. Perhaps, he treated them the same way he treated people – in a condescending manner of fake patience. Anyway, even if it made Sherlock uncomfortable, she didn't have to apologize for a cat's presence in her flat. It was only up to Molly to decide who was allowed to live here.

She accidentally glanced in the detective's direction and immediately looked away, avoiding eye contact. Sherlock was too close to her. He was perilously close. Molly picked Lucky up and moved away from the sofa out of harm's way. It seemed, the honour to break the long silence belonged to her.

"I'm ready."

Her short phrase was interpreted as a wake-up call: Sherlock and Daniel jumped off the sofa almost simultaneously. Lucky looked attentively at his mistress and, all of a sudden, started purring. Molly was more than surprised. She was amazed. In Lucky's opinion such behaviour was beneath noble cats. So she quite rarely had a possibility to enjoy listening to those calming sounds. And here he was, purring.

Pure thing, he must have felt that she was leaving,

"My sunshine, don't worry. I will be back very soon and while I'm gone, Daniel will be looking after you. Will you?" Molly asked her friend, gently stroking the cat's back.

"Of course, I will" promised Daniel, pulling Lucky off his mistress's sweater, which, by the way, wasn't that easy to do with the cat's nails stuck in the woolen fabric. "Everything is gonna be fine, pal, you'll see. We'll have a wonderful time together."

"I think, we have to go now." a persistent voice reminded of himself.

"And I think, Molly has forgotten to do one more very important thing."

"What thing?" asked Sherlock and Molly in unison.

"To say goodbye to me."

Daniel put Lucky back on his rightful place on the sofa and took her in the arms. The embrace was so warm and comfy that Molly sighed with regret, when he let her go. But before she was even able to mumble "See you", Daniel bent over and kissed her for the second time in a day. The touch of his lips, sweet and tender, took Molly's breath away. In a few minutes Daniel broke the kiss and leaned against her, breathing hard, giving her some blissful time of inner peace before the start of the imminent storm.

Sherlock made the young woman come down to earth with a pretended cough. __

"Come back to me. I'll be waiting." whispered Daniel in Molly's ear, letting go of her hand. "Come back to me."

Following Sherlock to the hall, Molly couldn't help looking back to catch one more glimpse of her nearest and dearest. Daniel gave her a reassuring smile while Lucky meowed loudly. The young woman immediately wished she hadn't done it. The sight of them only made her heart ache. Truly, it had never been so hard to leave home.

Sherlock was standing at the door, languishing. Forcing herself to move, Molly involuntarily met the gaze of the man, who visited her in her nightmares every single night.

 _What are you doing, Molly_ _?_ whispered her stubborn inner voice ruefully.


	5. The Patronage

Everything comes to its end sooner or later. This goes even for torture. Sherlock was incredibly happy to leave the quarters of Molly's house. Even cold wind and dark clouds, presaging rain, couldn't spoil the feeling of ease. Come on, this was just some water from the sky! Had he spent ten more minutes on the sofa in there, and even a hurricane would have started to seem a pretty good weather for a walk.

What was happening to him?

Daniel Rogers. That man, Molly's most irritating boyfriend so far, drove Sherlock crazy. She had been in relationships before but none of them had ever made Sherlock so angry. This is despite the fact that once Molly dated James Moriarty. The James Moriarty! But even Jim, Sherlock's sworn enemy, failed to make the detective feel that bad. It took him much effort and all the available emotional resources to withstand a powerful desire to wipe the wide smile off the blonde guy's face with a waspish remark.

This wasn't about the man's behaviour. That kiss must have been a mere way to claim his rights, to show that Molly belonged to him, Daniel. As if Sherlock had any intentions of stealing the girl! Absurd! Except for this, the guy's comport was nothing but flawless. Though unwillingly, Sherlock had to admit, without Daniel's assistance he would have failed to persuade Molly to join him on the case.

That was it. A sudden idea popped into his head, explaining everything at once. Daniel himself didn't irritate Sherlock – the way he influenced Molly did. She was no longer dull, tired and miserable. Her eyes sparkling, the colour heightened in her cheeks, Molly Hooper was transformed into the most beautiful woman Sherlock had ever seen, every time Daniel Rogers came around. He didn't even suspect that Molly laughed so musically. He didn't realize how much messy hair and sweet smiles suited her. Molly was completely different with Daniel. And this happy strange Molly had surely chosen to have some time off until their case was solved. Sherlock squinted at the young woman several yards away from him.

Lost in her thoughts, Molly was walking quietly, detached expression on her face. How impossible it was to believe that this happened to be the same woman, who had just been whirling around the room, roaring with laughter!

"And that is how I influence Molly." muttered he sadly.

 _What were you expecting, anyway?_ inquired his inner voice mockingly.

 _What had you done to see her smile?_

 _What had you given up to deserve her?_

Nothing. He did nothing of the kind. He acted the other way. Sherlock did his best to make Molly run away, the moment she even caught a glimpse of him: _**"Don't make jokes, Molly.", "For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.",**_ _**"Say it anyway.", "It wouldn't be fair to give you false hope.", "Are you sick of being alive?"**_

The last phrase flashed in his mind before Sherlock could suppress it and drive away any thoughts of that accursed day. But no matter how much the detective needed to forget, he still remembered everything: John's call, grey hospital walls, the doctor's promises that she didn't have any serious injuries, Molly's pale face, lifeless skin and thin arms, hardly discernible against white sheets.

He remembered carrying her into a taxi and then from the car into the house. So weightless she seemed in his arms. He remembered waiting for her to wake up, trying to assuage overwhelming guilt that was literally tearing him up inside by talking to John. He remembered how relieved he felt to see her awake, remembered how mad he was at her for being so reckless.

He deserved every word she said. Absolutely. Sherlock had asked himself the same question a million times: "Why was it John, who saved Molly on the bridge? Why?"

There was a sad, though obvious, answer to that. "Sherlock Holmes is not a boyfriend material." Unfortunately, Molly's subconscious mind had assigned him this role in her life, without offering any other options. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. Along with a couple of close friends, Sherlock somehow managed to make, the plain pathologist had long ago stopped being just an acquaintance, holding a special place in his heart. He wasn't romantically involved with her, though. His life consisted of investigating different cases – murders, mysterious disappearances, masterful robberies. It was to this that he devoted himself. Sherlock Holmes wasn't made for relationships and marriage. Besides, being up close and personal with him had a lot more disadvantages, than advantages. Challenging as it was, friendship with the famous detective meant to get used to your life being in jeopardy on the regular basis due to your friend's countless enemies. Sherlock himself could easily hurt even the nearest and dearest with those rude remarks of his, whenever he indulged in detective reasoning. In a nutshell, he was no prize.

Molly's feelings for him remained an enigma. She kept loving Sherlock, no matter what he'd done, no matter how badly he'd hurt her. She loved him and continued suffering, just because he was unable to reciprocate this love. Avoiding reminding Molly of his existence seemed to be the only way to ensure her happiness. And that's where his good intentions led them. "Why was it John who rescued me on the bridge?"

"Because I wanted to give you a chance to be happy. Without me."

The sound of Mycroft's voice, businesslike and matter-of-fact, brought Sherlock back to reality. "I see, Molly has consented. No additional measures needed. Good job."

"If I'd dared to refuse, you would have dragged me into the car?" inquired the young woman derisively, sizing up Mycroft's black executive car.

"If it had been necessary." replied Sherlock's elder brother. There wasn't a hint of a smile on his face. "British government is highly interested in a positive outcome of this case. We have our own reasons. They are top secret, of course. Let's just say, that some very important people may lose their loved once, if you won't cooperate. So, why don't you just get in the car?" said Mycroft and opened the back door for her in one smooth movement.

Molly had no choice, but to obey. Something told her that it was all information she could get out of him for now. There was a pretty good chance, though, that Sherlock would eventually drop silent treatment and finally brief her on the details. She was never determined to go someplace she had no idea about, for some unknown reason, on top of that, escorted by Sherlock Holmes. Not knowing was unbearable. Hadn't she already proved herself trustworthy? She surely did, but Sherlock didn't seem to remember about it.

"For your idea, I had no doubts, that you would succeed in persuading the fair lady to help us. Except, you do look a lot worse than I expected. Too gloomy. It won't do. Wrong mood for a man in love.

Sherlock paid no heed to his brother's obvious mockery of him. Without a word, he just took his place next to Molly in the car, leaving her wondering what it was all about. The answer was somewhere out there, waiting to be discovered.

All the way to the airport the detective kept ignoring Mycroft's attempts at small talk. Molly didn't intervene. One thing she never doubted was that those two had a unique relationship, extremely complicated. Meddling wouldn't change anything. Looking out of the window and pretending she wasn't there at all seemed to be the best and the only option. What was the point of gazing at the painfully familiar face, framed by a wild disarray of curls? Anyway, she wasn't allowed to find out what was hidden beneath that hard-shell exterior. He would never let her.

Molly was extremely happy to see the runway outside the window. A small private plane was already waiting for them. Perfect. With moody Sherlock by her side in the enclosed space of the moving vehicle Molly felt as if she was suffocating. Had she spent several more minutes with the detective within arm's reach, she would definitely have started begging Mycroft to swap places.

During their car ride, the rain turned into a downpour, mercilessly giving out damp slaps to those few, who had dared to go outside. Here and there unlucky passers-by were hurrying to escape from the torrential rain into the warmth of cozy cafes, busy shops and glass-walled offices. Molly deeply sympathized with all of the unfortunate, and when it was her turn to get under a cold shower, followed suit: ducked down and headed for the only shelter there was nearby.

The young woman quickly climbed up the metal stairs and dived inside the warm cabin of the plane. She took the window seat and gave her full attention to the entrance, expecting the brothers to join her at any moment. In a couple of minutes, though, only one of them appeared. Sherlock.

Mycroft's lonely figure remained outside, watching them take off, He must have needed to make sure that Molly would stay on board. No sentiments included. Pure business.

She kept looking at the detective's brother until Mycroft became nothing but a tiny dot, hardly discernible from the height. Then she turned to Sherlock, coughing a little to remind him of her presence.

"Spill it."

The young woman managed to get the detective's eyes fixed full on her but Sherlock wasn't still in much of a hurry to fill his companion in on any information at all.

"Tell me everything, Sherlock, or I swear I'll have the plane land this very moment. FYI, I really don't give a damn what Mycroft and all his glorified British government will think about it."

A slight smile graced Sherlock's lips at her fearsome threat. Transient, though, it didn't last long. He had been keeping silence for some more minutes, before finally saying a phrase that made Molly's heart miss a beat.

"We'll have to pretend to be newly-weds."


	6. The Flight

Molly's first instinct was to leave immediately by any means necessary. She sprang to her feet with a clear intention of making the pilot land the plane or at least give her a parachute. "If he turns to be stubborn, I will jump without any equipment at all." Molly thought. The young woman felt as if she was ready to do anything in order not to spend another second with Sherlock.

"Molly, wait, listen to me." Complete tranquility of his voice was the last straw. Suddenly, she found herself flying into a rage and pounced on Sherlock furiously.

"No, you listen to me. I don't know what ingenious scheme you have conjured up there in your head, but I've had enough! I'm not your toy. Do you hear me? I'm not your property! How much longer are you going to make fun of me?

You are perfectly aware of my feelings for you and deliberately keep on punishing me for having them. Do you get some kind of perverted pleasure from watching other people's anguish? Whatever it is, accept my congratulations. Among Sherlock Holmes's many nasty deeds, this one is the most disgusting.

That's what you wanted, isn't it? To destroy me completely? Only I'm not a toy! I'm a living person! Do you understand? Living! And I f-feel pa-i-n–"

The phrase remained unfinished. Her voice died away, giving place to tears that immediately turned into convulsive sobbing.

Molly hated crying in front of him, but just couldn't help it. She turned away from the detective and wrapped her arms around herself, waiting patiently for the tears to stop and for the humiliation to end.

Sherlock kept on staring at her trembling shoulders, wanting terribly to embrace Molly and sooth her pain, coveting to show her that he wasn't that much of a monster. But he didn't think she would appreciate such a gesture. His words were just too great a shock for her. There was nothing left to do but to give Molly some time to compose herself. Only after that Sherlock could have a try at convincing her to help him, no matter what. Once again. One last time.

The detective started talking; struggling to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him time and again, forcing the man to make small pauses.

"As I've already told you, Kellochy is the place, where people vanish. Young couples... Usually during their honeymoon. No eyewitnesses, not one piece of evidence. As if the couples… just disappear…into thin air. However, all the missing have one thing in common. Before vanishing they all had spent some time at the mansion, which happens to be a guesthouse run by a Mrs. Jaundice," Sherlock noticed that Molly had stopped shaking and proceeded on talking with much more confidence, "a nice old lady, who wouldn't hurt a fly. At least those few, who know her, say so.

The local police have already checked the guesthouse several times, but in vain. According to Mrs. Jaundice, newly-weds usually book a room at her house for a couple of days, tops. Then they leave. No witnesses to confirm it, though. The nearest village is twenty miles away.

There is no such thing as a bad coincidence. I'm sure; Mrs. Jaundice and her husband are somehow involved in these disappearances. No evidence of the spouses' guilt has been detected yet, but it exists. And I'll found the proof. It's not possible without getting into the guesthouse. The problem is that the opportunity to spend a weekend at Mrs. Jaundice's is offered only to married couples, newly-weds, to be exact. That's why, I need your help."

"You could have chosen anyone. Any girl. Someone, like Janine. Why me?" Molly asked quietly, her back still turned to him.

"There have been only two disappearances since the guesthouse started functioning. This is despite the fact that there are quite a lot of couples coming to Mrs. Jaundice's mansion every year. It's understandable – a very popular resort that people often choose to honeymoon is just two days' ride from there.

Well, the first couple vanished five years ago. Nobody reported them missing. The relatives were certain that "the crazy lovebirds", as the groom's uncle referred to them, took off somewhere again, not bothering to inform the family of their new address. The other couple disappeared the day before yesterday. As they aren't usually prone to such behaviour, the parents were worried immediately. The bride's father is a high government official. So the case was assigned to Mycroft and, consequently, to me. The family thinks that Kate and Roger are still alive. That's what the fuss is all about and–"

"That doesn't answer my question." Molly interrupted him wearily as she took a seat opposite the man. "Out of all the girls in the world…why me?"

"Everyone, who knew the couples underlined that, their marriages were unusually harmonies. To be exact, the missing were crazy about each other. So, there's an evident pattern – the abductor, who is, most likely, the murderer, targets only those newly-weds, who seem to be the happiest.

But to find out what is really going on, we have to attract Mrs. Jaundice's attention. Of course, if it's she, who's responsible for the disappearances. We must become perfect bait. Nobody would look more convincing, pretending to be romantically involved with me, than you. Neither Janine, nor any other girl, could do the job. And that's because you," Sherlock looked Molly in the eye for the first time since the plane took off, «truly love me."

"Unrequitedly. Might be a problem." She sniffed disapprovingly, turning her head away.

"As for me, I'll be hardly able to fake having feelings for anybody else, but you." said Sherlock, his voice quiet and serious.

"Why is that? I remember that you didn't have any difficulties posing yourself as Janine's boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes seemed to be head over heels in love."

"But he wasn't really happy."

This short answer made Molly abandon staring at the clouds outside the window. She glanced at the detective in surprise. Sherlock didn't care to elaborate, studying the back of her seat, fingers steepled under his chin.

What did he mean? That she was special? Molly took a closer look at the detective and decided not to make a big deal out of his words, no matter how sincerely they sounded.

Lots of what he told her before seemed to be true. But it wasn't. That's why, it would be best for both of them to avoid this dangerous topic.

«Your plan has only one drawback. It's impracticable. I doubt very much, this Mrs. Jaundice will kindly provide London's most famous sleuth with the evidence against herself. We are screwed, the moment she sees you on her doorstep.

If Mrs. Jaundice is the culprit, you are looking for, there are two possible scenarios. In the first we won't be even let in, due to the lack of the vacant places or the shortage of food, or whatever reason they manage to come up with.

In the second scenario we'll be given a welcome so warm that there won't be a single opportunity to come across anything that incriminates the owners of the guesthouse."

"Don't worry about this. The mansion is miles from anywhere. No internet, no mobile reception. The people, who live in the neighboring village, give the place a wide berth. Besides, Mycroft's agents claim that 22 June 1987 was the last time Mrs. Jaundice ever received mail. Complete isolation from the outer world.

Only the guests could have told her about me, which is unlikely. If someone did mention my name at breakfast, it's a slim possibility that Mrs. Jaundice has a slightest idea of how I look.

"You've clearly thought it all through, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. Molly, listen, I don't deserve you help, I know that. But Kate has a small daughter from the first marriage; and the girl's only wish is to see her mum again. We're losing precious time–"

"I'll play your wife," Molly interrupted him, "but on one condition – as soon as we get back to London, you'll erase all memories of me; from that moment on you won't even let your shadow near my house. Do we have a deal?"

Sherlock gave her a strange look before nodding reluctantly

"Yes, but–"

The pilot's loud announcement prevented his finishing what he had to say.

"Get ready for a landing."

"Landing?" inquired Molly with puzzlement. "How could it be? We have been on the plane for fifteen minutes, tops. It's not even nearly enough to reach Ireland."

"This isn't Ireland. Before leaving for Kellochy, there's one more thing we need to do."

"What's that? What do we need to do" Molly asked automatically.

She had a feeling that she wouldn't like Sherlock's answer. And this time her instincts were right.

"To get married."


	7. The Arrival

There wasn't any point in denying the evident. Her life had completely turned into a mess. Into a farce. A strange town with an unpronounceable name; a dusty little chapel, that hadn't been opened to public for years; a balding chaplain, wearing orange pajamas under the cassock. Well, this wasn't exactly how she'd pictured her wedding. That sorry list of failed expectations wouldn't have been full without mentioning a moody groom, who was automatically repeating the marriage vows after Father Stanley. The latter was so nervous that had begun to stutter from the very first minute of the ceremony. The contrast between the priest's thin trembling voice and Sherlock's firm tone was pretty funny. But Molly didn't feel like laughing at all.

"I, W-w-w-william She-she-sherlock Scott-t-t H-h-holmes, t-t-take you–"

"I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take you–"

"Mo-Mo-Моlly Amand-d-dа Hoop-p-per–"

"Molly Amanda Hooper–"

"To b-b-be my lawful w-w-wife–"

"To be my lawful wife–"

Meanwhile "the happy bride" was trying hard not to put her hands over her ears. There were lots of different tunes Molly could hum to avoid hearing two men's voices. But she didn't, of course.

What was wrong with her, anyway? Had she murdered someone in the previous life? Was this all situation some kind of a punishment for the crime committed back then?

She couldn't think of any other reason for God to reward her with a personal torturer and tormentor. A diligent one, truly committed to his work, needless to say. Having tried all the ways there were to make Molly suffer, he didn't hesitate for a moment to start destroying her deepest dreams. Those cherished fantasies nobody is supposed to know about, such as marrying the man she loves in a small church.

There had been many times she imagined herself walking down the aisle in a simple, though beautiful, white dress, adorned with something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.

In her dreams there are only friends at the ceremony: Mrs. Hudson, not even trying to hold back her tears of joy; John Watson, eyeing the bride attentively and giving the best housekeeper of England his handkerchief; and Molly's nearest and dearest, smiling down at her from heaven. Her parents. She smiles back and mends her pace, almost flying down the aisle. The groom's looking at her lovingly, his magnificent blue and green eyes sparkling with happiness. He takes Molly by the hand; and the world around them disappears, giving place to the silent dialogue of the two halves of a whole, accompanied by the priest's solemn speech. After the obligatory instructions Holly Father asks Sherlock to say his vow. Molly listens to her man's deep voice, believing his every word, because she knows he's telling the truth.

"For richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part."

"Molly! Molly! It's your turn!" the harsh reality reminded of itself, in one fell swoop dispelling the beautiful illusion.

The young woman had got so lost in thoughts she missed the moment Sherlock stopped talking. No wonder, all eyes were upon her now. Molly Hooper had lost track of what's happening at her own wedding! That's where knowing Sherlock had led her.

Pretty tired, she muddled through her own vow, expecting the ordeal to finish any minute now. To his credit, Father Stanley had already stopped stuttering. He'd developed a taste to mixing words instead.

"I now pronounce you wan and mife." said the priest, providing the ceremony with a truly grand finale for the buffoonery it actually was. The Holly Father's mistake failed to cause even a shadow of a smile on Molly's face.

All this would have been hilarious, if it hadn't been so sad.

She was wrong. The wedding wasn't a farce. It was a tragicomedy.

"With special effects." Molly added, wincing at the sound of an exploding firecracker.

"Congratulations! Congratulations! My little brother is a married man now. This remarkable event will go down in history." Mycroft's figure appeared out of nowhere his face split into a wide smile. Without wasting time, he fished out a smartphone from the pocket of his trousers and started taking photos of the "newlyweds". Molly, who had never been fond of being photographed, was outraged by such behaviour. She frowned and made an immediate attempt to stop Mycroft.

"Enough! There's nothing funny about it. People's lives are at stake here. How dare you?"

"There's something even more important at stake here. My work. If you blow you chance to save Kate and Roger, guess who'll be the first to feel the consequences?

I'll tell you what, darling, there will be another job in my life. But as for my only brother's wedding, it's highly unlikely to take place again. So–"

"Mycroft, stop fooling around! You weren't even supposed to be here." intervened Sherlock.

"I told you, I just couldn't miss it. No way, brother dear."

"If you showed up, I presume, our luggage is ready?" Sherlock inquired, leaving his place at the altar.

"It has been only a couple of minutes since the wedding vows, and you've already been abandoned." Molly told herself gloomily, joining the brothers. The two were talking in hushed voices.

"Thank you, Holly Father, the British Government appreciates your full cooperation." Mycroft remembered suddenly, beaming at the poor priest and pointing him to the side door. "My people are waiting for you outside. They'll give you a lift home. Take care, Father."

Waiting for the Father Stanley's cassock to disappear from view, all three were silent. Mycroft was recollecting the episode from his brother's childhood, when Sherlock made a bet that he would be the first to get married. The renowned private detective had no idea that he had just won the bet. He was pondering over something very important in his mind palace. Molly, meanwhile, was busy, studying the gold ring, given to her a minute ago. Mycroft didn't bother to make the moment special, shoving it into her hand in a careless manner. The young woman wasn't admiring the jewelry; she was mourning the death of one more dream.

After listening to Mycroft's instructions for half an hour Molly was more than happy to get on board. Sherlock's brother had taken care of all the important stuff they would need for the case: smart wearable outfits for leisure, photos of the groom and the bride together, a marriage certificate and some other little, but still quite essential things. His work here was obviously finished, and yet Mycroft couldn't let them go without a pep talk. The big brother needed to share his view on typical newlyweds' behaviour. After five minutes of the most tedious monologue ever, Molly already wished to hide someplace, like in a soundproof vault. Though she had to admit, Mycroft's presence had its advantages. At least, his lecture delayed the moment when she would have to be alone with Sherlock. Again.

No matter how much Molly wanted this moment to never come, it still did. She glanced up at the detective's stiff face and instantaneously regretted thinking badly of Mycroft's long speech. It was definitely better to die of boredom, than to be locked in a cage with the man, who'd married her only to make the whole deception thing more convincing. To be left alone with the man, who didn't care for her, who didn't love her.

With nothing else to do, Molly decided to go through the contest of the trunk, delivered by Mycroft.When she was done with it, the young woman yawned and raised her hand to rub the sleep out of her tired eyes.Molly's fingers froze midair, failing to reach their goal. How could she let this out of sight? Her body was giving the clear clues of a perfect way out!There was something she could do to save herself from the awkward silence. She could fall asleep!

At first Molly wanted to tell Sherlock about her intentions; but then after several unsuccessful attempts to draw his attention she justput her seat back silently and close her eyes, diving into the warmth of a blanket.She didn't expect to cork off as soon as her head touched the pillow after such an eventful day. But oddly enough the darkness of the night outside the window and the steady sound of the plane's engine managed to lull Molly almost in no time and sleep embraced her.

But even in the world of dreams she couldn't evade the painful reality. The episodes of the day, though altered a bit, wouldn't leave her. She had a very strange dream.

There is the same ancient chapel. Molly's the bride. Somehow, her white dress's changed into a hospital gown.

The groom waves at her. But it isn't Sherlock waiting at the altar. Daniel. The floor suddenly starts shaking. From somewhere behind her the cold wind begins to blow, the dust of the uncharted paths in its flow. Molly covers her eyes, trying to protect herself from the merciless element. In a moment the storm is gone. Someone new has occupied the spot next to her. Mycroft. He's smiling from ear to ear.

Sherlock is there too. He's busy, taking polaroid pictures of the newlyweds. The photos fall to the floor with a thud, turning into a smudge of the artificial emotions on the cold surface. In the meantime the bride and the groom exchange their vows. The priest is standing with his back towards them; his voice seems to be coming from far away.

"…until death do us part." finishes her vow Molly.

"I don't believe you." The priest turns around. Molly's taken aback at the awful sight. Instead Father Stanley there's an ugly mean crone with an evil grin on the wrinkled face.

"I don't believe you! I don't believe, Molly!"

"Molly, Molly! Wake up!" a gentle whisper in her ear broke into the phantasmagoria of the dream, sending a chill down her spine.

"We are already there, Molly."


	8. The Guesthouse

In her childhood Molly was very much into gothic short stories. Mystical unexplainable events; shadows of the past on the faded pages; the unique atmosphere of mystery and suspense, evoking irrational, though palpable horror – Molly loved it all so much, that she could spend hours in her room, devouring another book, engaged in endless dreaming.

On rainy days, when all her peers complained constantly about the bad weather, Molly was the only one, who didn't feel bored. The little girl was busy trying to find answers to thousands of questions. For instance: "What would happen if...", "What creature hides under the bed?", "Why do nightmares always come at night?" Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone to help Molly with this difficult task. Her parents read nothing of the kind. When Molly's mum noticed the daughter's abiding interest in horrors, she decided that her little girl had to be isolated from such literature once and for all. Whichever rational arguments Molly provided to prove that her psyche wasn't being exposed to any danger, Janet Hooper turned a deaf ear to them.

Luckily, her father's ideas of parenting differed from those of her mum. Though he didn't share Molly's hobbies, dad always supported her in everything she did. It was he, who would often take her to the library two blocks away from their house without Janet's knowledge. It was her daddy, who came up with a brilliant idea to keep the precious books booty, she procured there, in the attic, the only place mum, allergic to dust, never visited. It was he, who could choose an unremarkable day to present Molly with a new volume of gothic stories from the bookstore around the corner. Then he would wink at her and be immediately off to the living room for some rest in his favourite morning newspaper reading spot on the couch. Whenever she tried to thank him, dad pretended he had no idea, what she was talking about, offering Molly some carrot juice. The best dad in the world.

But even he wasn't able to solve all the riddles for her.

Molly had no other choice, but study illustrations in the books. That where all the answers were kept, she thought. One could hardly argue with the logic of an eight-year-old girl. The painter must have read the story before illustrating it. What if he or she'd noticed something Molly missed? A tiny detail, an elusive sense, a hidden key to understanding? The little girl could spend hours staring at the pictures, scrutinizing and comparing in a search of the answer, she coveted to find. But this hobby of hers turned out to be more disappointing than useful. Molly discovered that reading the books you intend to illustrate wasn't as obligatory as she imagined. Most of the pictures rendered the reality of the gothic stories quite vaguely. Their main purpose was to draw the reader's attention by creating an appropriate atmosphere. Varied mystical artifacts commonly associated with horror could be depicted on every single illustration, without being actually mentioned in the story itself.

There were a couple of images, though, among the plethora of the unreliable ones that suggested true answers, rather than new questions.

"The house" was one of them. The image that became engraved in Molly's memory the moment she saw it. No wonder, it popped in her head at the very first glance at the ponderous building of the guesthouse.

Indeed, the fiction and the daunting reality suddenly started to have a lot in common. The mansion wasn't built on the high cliff, of course. Quite the opposite. It nested in a small valley, surrounded by hills on all four sides. Protected from the outer world, the house lay in its crib, lurking, waiting calmly for its prey to come. Apart from the location, everything else about the mansion resembled the infamous ghost house a lot. But this time Molly wasn't sure if she wanted to find out its secrets. Any of them.

The clear lines of the two-storey building were slightly discernible behind the grey veil of the early morning mist. The eyeless sockets of the ogival windows peered into the night. The blur outlines of turrets tops were lost in the clouds of a strange greenish glow. There wasn't a single sound, no noise whatsoever, except for the hardly audible whisper of the wind. It brought cold with it. The one, that pierces right through to your bones.

Molly started shivering the moment she got out of the rental car. Due to Mycroft's courtesy she was wearing a knit cardigan over a light jumper, but its warmth seemed to be powerless against the cold. It was getting deep underneath her skin.

"Where the heck are we?" Molly asked the emptiness. Sherlock was too busy emptying the car's trunk, stuffed with luggage, to hear her. The detective came up to Molly only when their bags were piled up in a neat pyramid outside the auto.

"Ready? Let's go?"

Molly nodded silently and followed Sherlock to the wrought-iron gates. The unlocked wrought-iron gates.

"Great. They are expecting us, after all," Sherlock noticed Molly's raised eyebrows at his words and made haste to explain. "I called them several times, but nobody picked up. Had to leave a message. Apparently, they have listened to it."

"Wait a bit, you said there was no mobile reception here."

"Yeah, but there's a landline. They must have some way of maintaining contact with the clients. Isn't it obvious? And they hardly use carrier pigeons for that, indeed," Sherlock replied cooly as he grasped the iron bars of the gates with both hands.

They refused to open on the first try. Despite the detective's protests, Molly stepped forward to help. Together, they managed to move the heavy door just enough to squeeze through. When they were finally on the other side of the gates, Molly leaned against the cold metal to catch her breath.

"Well, we are really expected. That's a truly warm welcome," Molly concluded, as she wiped the traces of rust from her hands with a handkerchief.

"At least, we didn't have to deal with them," Sherlock said, pointing at the couple of massive locks, hanging freely on one of the bars.

"You're right. What's with the luggage?"

"We'll get it later. If to believe the hosts' words, there isn't a living soul for miles around. So the bags are hardly in danger."

"Unlike us." Molly muttered to herself.

The rest of the way to the mansion was uneventful. Nobody spoke a word. Sherlock didn't seem to have changed any of his habits even a little bit. The detective was lost in his thoughts, showing no intentions to make small talk whatsoever. Molly just trailed along, a silent shadow at his back.

The walkway leading to the house was lined with bizarre dark figures that didn't exactly boost her courage in the face of the impending trial. Molly kept telling herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. Most likely, these were just small statues – the result of some architect's creative thinking and hard efforts. But she couldn't get rid of the unpleasant feeling, anyway. Something surreal was in their dim outlines.

The unpleasant images, flashing in her head one after another, distracted Molly from noticing, that she had fallen behind Sherlock. Sometimes she really wished she hadn't had such vivid imagination. Trying to keep up, Molly quickened her pace, almost running. She managed to catch up with the detective at the very threshold of the mansion.

Sherlock gave his companion a surprised glance, but didn't say anything. He reached for the large metal ring on the door, knocked three times, stepped back and hid his hands in the pockets of the grey coat, expecting the answer to arrive shortly.

Molly waited with bated breath. The young woman felt ambivalent about their mission now more than ever: her desire to escape the cold in the warmth of the house was as strong as the instinct to run away from it without ever looking back, before she wasn't imprisoned in the cage of the future deceit.

A presentiment of danger, caused by the atmosphere of anxiety, had such an unnerving effect on the young woman that she jumped at the light touch on her skin. Sherlock. He smiled at Molly reassuringly. His warm fingers intertwined with hers.

"Everything will be alright. You'll see. Molly, I–"

A sound of the opening door stopped Sherlock midsentence. His knock had been heard. A young girl, dressed as a maid, appeared on the threshold. They couldn't make out her face in the semi-darkness of the hall, lit by the flickering light of a single lamp. But from what Molly could see, the strange girl was quite pretty. Under an old fashioned bonnet there hid auburn locks with the honey highlights. She had full lips, moving slightly and sky-blue eyes, looking at them with distrust and apprehension. The girl seemed to be as cold as ice. Not a ghost of a smile across her pale gaunt face. "That's what they call a warm welcome. Nothing to add," Molly thought gloomily.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my wife, Molly," Sherlock introduced them cheerfully, putting his arm around his "beloved". "I left you a message. We need a room for a couple of days."

It turned out the girl was immune to the detective's charm. Without responding to his words, she kept on sizing up the visitors for some more minutes, shifting her gaze from Sherlock's broad smile to Molly's. The latter was the first to have had enough of such a reception.

"Look, miss. We've come a long way to get here. My husband and I are dead on our feat. If there are no vacant rooms, just say so. We'll go back to the car–"

Her fiery speech ended midsentence. The maid stepped aside, gesturing for them to come in.

For the second time in the last five minutes Sherlock took Molly by the hand, leading her away into the unknown of the hostile house. The maid turned left, her back disappearing in complete darkness. That's when Molly realized how happy she was to have Sherlock hold her hand. There was obviously something strange going on in this house.

They followed the girl through a couple of doors into a lightless room with a hardly discernible interior. The maid reached the foot of the large wooden stairs and froze there.

"Do we have to go upstairs?" Sherlock inquired.

The girl paid absolutely no attention to his question, staying silent.

"Miss, at last, say something! It's beginning to feel more than weird," Molly demanded, irritation surging, "a couple of words would be just fine."

"She can't," a voice in the darkness interrupted, "she's deaf-mute."


	9. The Test

All of a sudden, the room was filled with bright light. An old woman was standing in front of them. If afterwards Molly had been asked how exactly this strange lady looked like, she could have hardly remembered anything particular. Except for several conspicuous features, the owner of the house (and it was the very woman, Molly heard so much about) looked quite ordinary: average height, medium build, gray hair framing her face in soft waves, brown eyes, wrinkles at the corner of a thin mouth, curled, though, into a broad, amiable smile.

"Her name's Emily," Mrs. Jaundice motioned in the direction of the maid. "I'm sorry your first impression of the house is darkness – our guests usually arrive before nightfall. That's why Emily's got a little bit confused. Actually, she's a very good girl. Do you happen to know a village twenty miles from here? That's where she was born. The poor thing couldn't find a job either in the village or in the neighboring town. I felt sorry for the girl and offered her to work for me. So it has now been several years since she started living here and helping me with household chores. I feed her, buy her clothes–"

"Pay her a salary?" Sherlock anticipated the woman's words, returning the smile.

"Of course. That's too. Believe me or not, she isn't a servant for us. I'd like to think of Emily as of a daughter, I always wanted, though never had," for a moment the woman's voice appeared to be full of sadness but merriment came back to her as quickly as it'd vanished in the first place long before they could find a pertinent word of comfort, "anyway that's water under the bridge. At the moment what important is that I'm having new people at my place."

The woman thanked Emily with a slight gesture, letting her know that she would take care of the guests from that time on. The girl nodded and rushed to the room under the stairs. Mrs. Jaundice kept her gaze fixed on Emily's back till the maid disappeared from view behind the closed door. Then she turned to her guests, the same charming smile on her face.

"So you've just got married. Molly and Sherlock, if I'm not mistaken. Congratulations. What can be better than a newly-born family! That's the best time in everyone's life."

"Thank you," "the newlyweds" responded in unison, "couldn't agree more."

"Then the couple makes a decision to have children, and all the fun is immediately replaced with problems and worries. Everyday's routine gets on nerves, prevents them from spending time together. Eventually, the desire to be beside each other weakens. Time goes by, bodies get old, and feelings subside. One day one wakes up to realize that there's a complete stranger next to him/her, and that the only thing this unfortunate soul feels about the spouse is disgust.

"Well, it doesn't always happen like that," Molly objected, "not to everyone."

"It's inevitable. There will be something, bound to ruin even the best relationship in the world. Would you yourself, honey, still love Sherlock, if he turned into an old, ugly cripple?"

"Yes, I would." Molly blurted out in defense. She didn't like the topic at all. Every new phrase the good-looking old lady pronounced gradually worsened Molly's opinion of her. The rest of the conversation reminded more of a Ping-Pong game than of an actual replica exchange.

"If he hurt you?"

"The answer's the same!"

"If he betrayed you?"

"The same!"

"If he went away and never came back?"

"The same!"

"If he fell out of love with you?"

"I would still love him!" Molly almost shouted out, fending off the last verbal attack.

"You are a silly little thing, girl," Mrs. Jaundice shook her head disapprovingly, "one shouldn't need other people that much. Getting attached brings no good. Sooner or later everyone leaves: friends, family, loved ones – all of them. What will be left there for you, when it happens?

"Love," Molly retorted firmly, "love will always stay with me. A beautiful feeling, isn't it?" Though sure she was right, the young woman looked at the owner of the guesthouse challengingly, expecting another rude commentary. But to Molly's surprise, there wasn't any. Instead Mrs. Jaundice broke into a smile, which wasn't addressed to her. She followed the old lady's gaze and discovered frozen Sherlock next to herself. Molly's heart sank. How could she have forgotten that he was in the room? That he heard her every word? How? Nothing could be done, anyway: Molly Hooper had just made fool of herself in front of Sherlock Holmes again. She had thrown her feelings to his feet. Here they were: ready to be smashed.

More than satisfied with the result of their small talk, Mrs. Jaundice announced her intention to show the guests their room as she headed for the stairs. From what it seemed, the old woman didn't have a slightest doubt that the newlyweds were following her.

Molly shrugged her shoulders and went after the hostess, but her path was almost instantly blocked, by Sherlock, her beloved Sherlock. There was that unexplainable twinkle in the detective's eyes, strangely uncharacteristic of his, and quite incompatible with Sherlock's usual veneer of seriousness. Molly had no idea what was happening and just silently observed the man's face coming closer and closer. And then their lips met. Molly winced. Questions in her head were replacing each other at an incredible speed: "What?", "Why?", "What for?"

She was ready to step aside, to get it all over with, but suddenly the detective put his hands on her back, pulling the young woman into his embrace. He held Molly tight, softly caressing her lips with his own. The kiss was so tender and sweet that she couldn't help giving in to its compelling power. She put her arms around Sherlock's neck and let herself enjoy affection, accepting and returning every touch, as if there was nothing else in the world, but that moment, the kiss and Sherlock.

"That is so charming! Still, don't you mind seeing the room first?" the owner's sweet voice broke the silence. "As soon as you are there, I'll leave you two alone."

Ashamed, Molly recoiled from the detective. Sherlock nodded, as if understanding perfectly, and stepped aside.

"We're coming. Sorry, it's only the second day of our honeymoon. Well, you know that–"

"Huh, I was young once too. I see what you mean."

"We'll try to avoid embarrassing you."

"Well, ok. Go ahead! Kiss each other, whenever you want, but let us check you in first."

"That's exactly what we are going to do...I wanted to ask – our bags behind the gates... Do I need to go or–?"

"My husband will take care of it. Don't worry."

"Great! Thanks! One more question: the ad said this house was built in the XIX century and that a story of its construction was remarkably fascinating. Would you care to elaborate?"

"I'd love too! I'm flattered, you're interested." The elderly woman blushed with pleasure. She ran down the stairs, linked her arm through Sherlock's and led him upstairs. "Nobody asked me yet. It's their loss. The mansion was built by my distant ancestor..."

Legging behind her companions, Molly listened to their lively conversation attentively at first, but then started to tune it out. The kiss, she'd just experienced, was the only thing the young woman could think of. Yeah, she and Sherlock pretended to be newlyweds. That category of people often tends to show affection by touching each other's lips. She realized perfectly that this aspect couldn't be omitted. If they wanted their fake marriage to look happy, kisses were to happen. Evidently, Sherlock decided to go with them right away. But what really puzzled Molly was the absence of any witnesses. Their play was meant for a public demonstration, the audience. That's the reason why the whole "relationship" thing even existed. But Sherlock kissed her when Mrs. Jaundice wasn't actually in the room.

The old woman noticed the absence of the entourage in her wake but this fact seemed to be the exception rather than the rule. Self-love, sometimes increased to the extent of sheer selfishness, was Mrs. Jaundice's characteristic feature. She could have easily gone up to the room, lecturing on the rules of living in the guesthouse or the fleeting nature of love, without caring much about the lack of the response. It's just who she was. Though Molly never claimed to be a genius sleuth, she was nevertheless perfectly capable of reading people. And to her credit, she did it quite well.

Why then? What was his goal? Maybe, he... No. Fiddlesticks. Sherlock never does anything without a reason. He must have planned it all in advance: every move, every tiny detail, including Mrs. Jaundice's possible reaction. But how had he managed to pull it? Molly was more than sure; the detective had never seen that woman in his entire life until now! But still, Sherlock somehow knew precisely when Mrs. Jaundice would get off those damn stairs to catch them kissing. Molly would give a lot just to feel for a second how it was to think like Sherlock.

"You aren't a genius sleuth, don't forget", Molly reminded herself quietly, "and it's highly unlikely, you'll ever be able to understand him."

Had Sherlock planned everything beforehand or had he left it to chance didn't matter. What mattered most was that the first act hadn't gone wrong. Grandstanding turned out to be a success.

The motives for the detective's actions were far too complicated to fathom, so Molly decided to leave it all behind. She tried to distract herself by devoting her full attention to the wide corridor leading to the north wing, where bedrooms were located. With the lights on, the mansion ceased to send cold shivers running up and down her spine. Though very old, it was just an ordinary house without any ghosts. Sometimes Molly's vivid imagination hindered her from thinking rationally. Obviously, there wasn't any evidence of paranormal activity here. The venerable age of the house, on the contrary, was seen with the naked eye in almost every detail of the interior. A faded red carpet on the floor, the ancestors' portraits enclosed within the tarnished silver frames, the wallpapers that were last rehung in the previous century, judging by the way they looked, – everything suggested ancientry. What was so attractive about this place for lovebirds then? The answer came instantly. The things that enticed visitors were simple: the unique atmosphere, the charms of antiquity, the chance to touch the history that had been lucky to capture the eluding time.

"Here is your suite!" Mrs. Jaundice exclaimed cheerfully, flinging a door of dark walnut-coloured oak wide open and switching on the light. "There's everything necessary: a double bed, a large wardrobe, comfortable armchairs and even a fireplace. There isn't a TV, though. Also, no mobile connection, as you may already know. But that's what a guesthouse for, I reckon: to tear yourselves away from monitors and enjoy some real holidays at last. Disagree if I'm wrong. The bathroom is adjacent. Emily has brought some clean towels, made a bed and lit the fire. If you should need something, just ring the bell. So what do you think of the room?"

"That's exactly what we wanted, just marvelous." Sherlock responded, watching the flames devour dry logs. "Thank you!"

"Thanks!" Molly nodded as she took the seat in the armchair opposite the fireplace. "It's all very cosy!"

"I'm happy to hear it. Your luggage will be here any time now. We'll discuss the payment tomorrow. You must be exhausted from your journey. I'll leave you to yourselves. Get settled in. Sweet dreams!" And with these words the old woman smiled at them once more and departed.

"I'll take a shower," Molly blurted out before Sherlock could say a word. There was at least one place in this house, where she could relax and be herself with nothing bothering her, where nobody expected anyone to pretend, where she was free.

Contrary to the fears Molly had, the bathroom in the mansion was quite modern. It took her some time to figure out how the taps worked, but that appeared to be the only difficulty present. The shower was perfect. Had Molly had her way, she wouldn't have left the place at all. Unfortunately, it wasn't possible. Postponing the return to the harsh reality hardly ever helps solve problems. With a sigh Molly wrapped herself in a towel and reached for the nightie. The hand grabbed nothing. And that was when Molly suddenly remembered: all their bags were still outside.

There wasn't a slightest desire to put her travelling dress back on. What if the bags had already been brought? In this case, she could just brush past Sherlock, grab her clothes and lock herself in the bathroom again to get ready for bed. On reflection, Molly decided to try her luck, tightened the knot of the towel and jerked the door open.

Just as she thought, their luggage was already there. Her plan appeared to be genius, except for one huge drawback. Sherlock was there, bending over his trunks and blocking free path to her backpack lying at his feet. There wasn't another way out. Action had to be taken.

"Bags are here? Great!" Molly blurted out and snatched her backpack with a swift movement, simultaneously opening the clasp on it.

"Yes, though they weren't delivered in a usual way. I was hoping to meet Mr. Jaundice, but he hadn't even bothered to show himself. The doorbell rang but there were only bags waiting on the doorstep."

"Never mind, you'll see him tomorrow", Molly assured, pulling her nightie out of a large compartment of the bag. She straightened up, intending to get to the bath as fast as possible.

"Probably, you're right. I can't find my address book anywhere. Could I've left it on the plane or in the car by any chance? You don't rememb…" Sherlock stopped rummaging through the black suitcase and turned to Molly, silenced midsentence. The young woman froze clutching the procured nightie to her chest. The detective's eyes widened in surprise, his pupils dilated. He gulped, unable to say a word. Sherlock's steady gaze started sliding over Molly's body: from her flushed face down to her slender legs, barely covered by terry cloth. Molly followed this gaze and immediately pressed the nighty to her thighs, slowly backing up to the door.

For several long moments Molly was groping for the handle before she finally discovered it. Having murmured something illegible, something about freeing the bathroom soon, Molly disappeared from view.

How embarrassing! While putting on her nighty, Molly kept replaying the awkward episode over and over in her mind: the indecency of her dressing, the intimacy of the situation and Sherlock, completely stunned. Wasn't it too much of a reaction from somebody who'd seen Irene Adler naked? Molly's appearance in a bath towel could never be compared, even remotely, to the nudity of the woman in both our and parallel universes.

The last few days were too much of a traumatic experience for even a pathologist psyche that had long been primed to receive shocking imagery. Not to lose herself in a wave of pointless self-deprecation, Molly resolved to go to bed and try to have some rest. Determined, she flung the door open and at full speed ran into Sherlock, who was standing right behind it. The detective caught Molly into a tight embrace in an effort to maintain at least some balance and save them both from a painful fall. For several moments Molly remained pressed against the man's body, unable to move, almost breathless. But then as if he'd finally managed to collect himself, Sherlock let go of her.

"Sorry… " they mouthed simultaneously.

"I didn't expect…" one more try at explaining in unison was fruitless.

"We'd better just exchange places." A slight smile touched Sherlock's lips as he stepped aside, letting Molly pass.

"Agreed!" Molly giggled nervously and instantly covered her mouth. What a stupid habit! Extremely stupid! She should have got rid of it ages ago.

The door behind Sherlock slammed shut with a thud. In a few minutes the silence was disturbed by the sound of the running water.

While making herself comfortable in bed, Molly was engaged in self-berating. Why were different incidents always happening to her? Why was she "the chosen one"? It's a pity, but though she had lived almost half of her life, she failed to answer the question so far.

Sherlock returned in ten minutes. Exhausted by all the trials of the day, Molly had almost drifted off to sleep, when the bed bent under the detective's weight. She wasn't a heavy sleeper, and sensed the change instantly. Throwing the blanket aside, Moly jumped out of bed.

"Sherlock!"

"Molly, in any other circumstances I would be thrilled to spend the night on the floor," the detective explained, anticipating her objections, "but to solve the mystery of the disappearances, we have to become a decoy – two people in love. Do you remember? Newlyweds don't sleep separately. We just have to put up with it for a couple of nights. There won't be any invasion of your personal space. I'll stick to my side of the bed. You can come back. It's perfectly safe."

Too knackered to argue and unable to come up with anything to counter the detective's rational reasoning, Molly accepted it.

She crawled back into the warms of the sheets, drew the blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes, trying desperately not to think about the man, whom she was going to share a bed with. While Molly was attempting to overcome her anxiety evoked by the detective's presence next to her, Sherlock had already switched off the light and was busy plumping up the pillow. The young woman was listening carefully to his quiet moves and when this almost inaudible noise had finally subsided, the remark slipped off her tongue before she could stop it.

"The trick with the kiss has worked. She believed we are head over heels in love with each other. But don't you think the moment wasn't quite appropriate? If Mrs. Jaundice hadn't left the stairs to get us to hurry, all your efforts would've been in vain. The play is meant for a public demonstration, remember?

"Molly, what you said today… I just couldn't resist kissing you."

Sherlock fell silent. Somehow, Molly knew: expecting him to elaborate was pointless. With a sigh, the young woman turned away from the detective. Was she going to spend a sleepless night, pondering over his controversial behavior? No way! Molly buried her face in the pillow and started pleading with the powers above for a quick arrival of the desired oblivion, begging to take her to the irrational world of dreams. Soon after she was heard.

A quiet, peaceful night had embraced two lovebirds, cuddling on the bed, asleep and happy, when a line of light interfered, running from the opened door.

"Wonderful!" the already familiar voice concluded, and silence descended over the house till the dawn of the next day.


End file.
